


Alcofribas, My Love! A Play in One Act

by Josephine March (ladyspencer)



Category: due South
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, Satire, vintage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspencer/pseuds/Josephine%20March
Summary: Our beloved characters drift into the consulate on a Friday afternoon exhausted from the badfics they have participated in over the past week. Fortunately, their weekends are their own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For all kinds of reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, this was the last fic I ever wrote in this fandom, and it was done fifteen years ago. I found it on another archive recently and thought it should go here. It more or less sends up everybody, but it was done with true affection. From the original notes:
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing!!  
> Author's Notes: I'd like to thank the anonymous people who egged me on to do this. They know who they are. Might as well spread the guilt around a little.

**Scene 1: The Vestibule, Canadian Consulate, Chicago, Illinois**

_As the scene opens, the Consulate looks ordinary enough. CONSTABLE RENFIELD TURNBULL is seated at his desk in the front hallway making entries into a chart that is secured to a clipboard. He's wearing his usual immaculate red uniform jacket, and his face bears its usual vapid expression._

_DETECTIVE STANLEY RAYMOND KOWALSKI enters from the left. He is carrying two large mugs of steaming liquid. Kowalski is dressed from head to foot in black, with the sleeves of his t-shirt rolled up to reveal biceps that are large and bulging, but at the same time slim and graceful. The right bicep is decorated with a large tattoo that seems to read VALVOLINE. Kowalski's dirty-blond hair is done in magenta-tipped spikes. His eyes are ringed with kohl, lashes darkened. His nails, done in a tasteful black polish, appear to be fairly well manicured. He sports a leather collar, a large rhinestone cross, and several uncomfortable-looking piercings. In short, he looks--well, he looks sort of like a younger, skinnier, edgier version of Ozzy Osbourne. Only his ass is cuter. An unfiltered cigarette dangles from his lip. We can only surmise that it's made of tobacco. He hands one of the mugs to Turnbull._

Turnbull: Oh, Detective. You've made the afternoon tea. Thank you! I was just filling out next week's badfic assignments.

Kowalski: It sucks. 

Turnbull: (Waves the smoke away with his hand and coughs.) What, the fic? Oh, you mean the tea! It looks lovely. (He takes a sip.) Mmm. Delicious. 

Kowalski: (Sips his tea.) Pah! It sucks. I suck.

Turnbull: Detective--

_The two men are interrupted by the arrival of MARY DUE, a tall, slender, roguishly beautiful redhead in her early twenties. Her skin is ethereal, glowing with a porcelain-like translucence that defies the finest Chinese porcelain. Her eyes are green--but an impossible shade of green, somewhere between the translucent waters of Lake Michigan on a hot summer afternoon and the translucent opalescent green of the finest Chinese porcelain. They are framed by delicate wing-like brows and defined by long, dark eyelashes. Her lips are of a porcelain-like pink, just like the finest porcelain roses, and she's wearing matching blusher and nail polish. Despite the fact that it's February, she's wearing a diaphanous white gown with long, flowing sleeves that trail along the ground. She appears to be carrying a flute case under one arm. She speaks in a musical voice._

Mary Due: Good afternoon. I'm Mary Due. Could one of you gentlemen tell me where I could find Constable Fraser?

Turnbull: I'm sorry, ma'am. He hasn't reported in yet, though we expect him momentarily. Is there something I can help you with?

 _Mary Due's eyes become stormy, rather like the waters of Lake Michigan on a stormy summer afternoon in June_.

Mary Due: I was supposed to work with him in the next badfic.

Turnbull: (Consults his clipboard.) Hmm, let me see. Was that "Canadian Sunset," subtitled, "A Girl called Alcofribas?"

Mary Due: Exactly. (She turns to Kowalski, who has been skulking sullenly nearby.) And who might you be? 

Kowalski: I'm Kowalski. Pleased ta' meetcha. Except it doesn't really matter, because I suck.

Mary Due: That's a very fetching shade of nail polish, Mr. Kowalski. (She smiles roguishly.) 

Kowalski: (Face lightens with that sweet, shy, boyish smile that only emerges when he's truly happy.) Gee, thanks. It's a new color--called A Darker Shade of Angst.

Mary Due: Sets off your tattoo to perfection.

Turnbull: I was going to ask you about your tattoo, Detective. Is it new? I thought you usually had the red and white Champion Sparkplug logo. That seems to be an advertisement for motor oil.

Kowalski: (Looks down at his bicep.) Yeah, they were out of those, so I thought I'd try this one. But it sucks, doesn't it? Just like me. A tattoo that sucks for a human being that sucks. (He turns to Mary Due and speaks in a confidential tone.) When they find out about the passive/aggressive role I played in this week’s badfic's surprise ending, they're all gonna kill me. 

Mary Due: My, you seem to have low self-esteem.

Kowalski: Nah. I just suck.

Mary Due: Well, if you gentlemen don't mind, I'll just go over here and practice my flute. I'm scheduled for a world concert tour. I'll be opening at Lincoln Center in a couple of weeks. 

Turnbull: You go right ahead, Ms. Due. 

_Alcofribas stands in a shadowy corner, takes out her flute, and begins to play. It's the most translucently ethereal music anyone has ever heard, full of sunshine and shadows, like Lake Michigan just after a summer storm in the month of June. Her shoulders sway gracefully, and her long, red hair falls over one shoulder_

**Scene 2: The Vestibule, A Few Minutes Later**

_As the music continues, Inspector Meg Thatcher lumbers in. She is enormously pregnant, her skin is blotchy, and her ankles are swollen. The scowl on her face reveals that she's in a foul mood._

Thatcher: Turnbull!! Have you finished next week's badfic assignments? (She presses both hands into her back.) 

Turnbull: Yes, Sir. Says here you're to take part in a fic entitled "Canadian Sunset, or A Girl Called Alcofribas." It's a tender and tragic love story.

Thatcher: Well, would you please check on the condom supply? I don't think I can do another pregnancy, especially if I have to go through all that infertility crap first.

Turnbull: Not to worry, Sir. According to our records, you play the part of a cold-hearted castrating bitch, out to enslave Constable Fraser forever in your fell clutches.

Thatcher: "Fell clutches?" I like that. Has a nice ring to it. Who is that--that girl in the corner playing the flute?

Turnbull: Ah. That's Mary Due. She's also taking part in the Alcofribas fic.

Thatcher: Seems like a nice, intelligent girl. I like that in a person. (She turns to Kowalski.) And how are you this afternoon, Detective? 

Kowalski: I suck.

_The door flies open, and DETECTIVE RAY VECCHIO enters, followed by his sister FRANCESCA. RAY resembles a veritable Knight in Shining Armani, while his sister is tarted up like the bimbo she is._

Vecchio: Afternoon, everybody. Anybody seen Fraser?

Turnbull: (Glances at his watch.) Well, hes running a little late.

Thatcher: (Rubs her belly and moans softly.) Oooh, he better hurry up. I’m not feeling too well.

_FRANCESCA hurries over to Meg, teetering on her impossibly high heels._

Francesca: Ohh, Meg. Do ya think its time? This labor thing really sucks. I remember when it was my turn. (She pops her chewing gum.) It’s bad enough to stick a nice Italian girl like me with an unwanted pregnancy. Course I guess it’s not as bad as these clothes they make me wear. But the labor!! And I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of having the baby die after all that work. 

Thatcher: Ooooohhhh.

Francesca: (Rubs her back.) Try not to think about it. So what happened? Condom break again? Or you just forgot it in the white heat of your passion.

Thatcher: No, it was a f-f-f-ertility thing. You can’t imagine what it’s like having to make whoopee on schedule in accordance with your basal body temperature. That damned thermometer!

Francesca: So who’s the daddy? Fraser?

Thatcher: Who the hell else? My one consolation was that I got to make his life a living hell for nine months. 

Francesca: Yeah. All men are bastards.

Thatcher: And if you forget, they’ll remind you. Ooooohhhh.

Francesca: Is it time to get you to the hospital?

Thatcher: No, damn it! I'm supposed to give birth right here at the Consulate, with Fraser at my side. But if he doesn't hurry-- 

Francesca: That really sucks! 

Kowalski: Did somebody say sucks?

_The door bangs open, and CONSTABLE BENTON FRASER staggers--or rather falls--into the room, followed by DIEFENBAKER. He is covered with blood and dirt from head to foot, and his uniform is filthy. One sleeve of his jacket is ripped off revealing a manly forearm. Much of his chest is visible through strategic rips in the front. He’s lost his Stetson completely. One eye is swollen shut, and his face is bruised._

Vecchio: You son of a bitch! What’s this I hear about your sleeping with my sister? And my MOTHER?? For God’s sake, man, have you no decency? I ought to--

Fraser: Ohhh.... 

Vecchio: Is that all you can say?

Fraser: I’m sorry, Ray. You’re going to have to cut me a little slack. You see--you see, I’ve just been brutally gang raped by twelve hardened criminals and left for dead in the trash dumpster over behind Super Fresh.

Vecchio: Oh, man! Did you have to do THAT fic? That has got to be the worst! I’ve been there.

Turnbull: Ah, yes. I remember when that fic happened to me. I felt as though I’d ridden across the Rocky Mountains on a bicycle with no seat.

Vecchio: Not to mention the wear and tear on your clothes! Man, Fraser, we're hurtin' for ya, buddy.

Kowalski: (Bursts into tears, which causes the non-waterproof eye makeup to run down his cheeks in dark streaks.) Awww man! I really, really suck! How could I let them do this to you? 

Fraser: Them? 

Kowalski: Yeah. As a human being, I’m a real shit. I just . . . well, I suck!

Vecchio: (Grabs him by the choke collar.) Are you tryin' to tell us YOU gave Fraser up to those scumbags? (Gives him a shake.) Why I ought to--you know what, you suck! 

Thatcher: Ohhhhhhhh.

Fraser: (Rushes to her side, limping just a bit.) My God, Darling! Is it--is it time?

Thatcher: Yes, you son of a--

Fraser: Let me get you upstairs.

Thatcher: There isn’t time

_FRASER helps her lie down, then take his place at her shoulder. FRANCESCA takes her other hand. MARY DUE continues playing the flute. VECCHIO, KOWALSKI, and TURNBULL stand off to one side._

Fraser: Ah, gentlemen. One of you is going to have to assist with the delivery. And could someone please ask that young woman in the corner to be quiet?

Mary Due: Constable Fraser, so pleased to meet you. Im Mary Due. We’re scheduled for--

Fraser: Yes, yes, for next week’s badfic.

Thatcher: OhhhhhhhHHHHHHH! YOU SON OF A BITCH! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN, MUCH LESS SLEEP WITH YOU!!! 

Fraser: Gentlemen, she’s entering transition. It’s time. (Aside to Meg.) I love it when you abuse me like that! Rrrrrrrr.

Vecchio: It’s not my turn. I did it last time. Kowalski? 

Kowalski: No, I did the last delivery. Turnbull’s up.

Turnbull: (Checking the list). You’re both wrong, gentlemen. Detective Vecchio, it’s your turn. Detective Kowalski and I will go and boil the requisite water.

Kowalski: Yeah, I really suck at delivering babies.

Vecchio: Ahh, shit. Guess I better get started. 

Thatcher: Hee! Hee! Hee! 

Mary Due: Why is she saying that? Hee, hee, hee? 

Fraser: It’s her Lamaze training. Come on, Meg, that’s my girl! Hee! Hee! Hee!

Thatcher: Hee! Hee! Hee! 

Mary Due: I think I’ll just go help with the water. (She smiles shyly at Fraser.) You see, umm, I’m still a virgin.

Fraser: Well, thank God we don’t have to worry about that till next week. Hee! Hee! Hee! 

Vecchio: OK, I can see the head. Go ahead and push.

Thatcher: Urgggg! (Aside to Francesca.) Boy, whoever wrote this badfic has obviously been through the process. This hurts like a son of a bitch.

Francesca: Yeah. I always like it when the deliveries are written by the teenagers.

Vecchio: One more good push: 

Thatcher: Urggg!

Vecchio: It’s a boy!

Fraser: Oh, darling! We have a beautiful baby boy.

_KOWALSKI, TURNBULL, and MARY DUE have returned with kettles of boiling water._

Kowalski: So, Fraser, how can you tell it’s a boy?

Fraser: Well, Ray, he has Manly Bits. That’s the proper terminology for what everybody else would call the penis and scrotum, or in your case the c--

Kowalski: Never mind, I get your drift. 

Fraser: Darling, let me get you and our beautiful son upstairs and into bed.

Meg: I feel like I just rode over the Rocky Mountains on a bicycle with no seat.

_FRASER scoops her and the child up into his arms and carries them upstairs._

Francesca: (Turns to Turnbull.) Looks like it’s you and me next week, Big Boy. 

Turnbull: (Blushes, consults his list.) You’re so right, Ms. Vecchio. Says here it’s a tale of tender passion and wild--er, wild untrammeled sexual encounters. Entitled "Turnbull Gets His."

Francesca: So what’ve you got inside those baggy pants, Renfield? 

Turnbull: I’m not exactly sure. Perhaps we could find out together.

_They exit through the front door, arm in arm._

Vecchio: So, Ms. Due. You’re a very talented flute player--for a virgin.

Mary Due: Why, thank you! 

Vecchio: I can assure you, my intentions are very honorable. But I’d like to take you home to meet my ma.

Mary Due: Well, as long as your intentions are honorable. I have to stay in this condition till the fic gets started. But I just love your shirt.

_They exit through the front door, arm in arm._

Kowalski: I suck.

**Scene 3: Later, that same evening, in the vestibule**

Kowalski: I suck.

FRASER staggers down the stairs.

Fraser: All tucked in, and they’re sound asleep.

Kowalski: And you can forgive me for what I did to you in this badfic?

Fraser: Of course I forgive you!

Kowalski: (Face lightens with that sweet, shy, boyish smile that only emerges when he's truly happy.) So we can go off now and indulge in the six hours of multi-orgasmic wild monkey sex? I heard about this trick with the chandelier. 

Fraser: (Sighs deeply.) Oh, Ray! I’m just exhausted! Between the gang rape, and that dumpster, and now the delivery. I don’t know when I’ve been this tired.

Kowalski: Yeah, I suck for even askin’

Fraser: Oh, no, Ray! What I really want to do is put on my nice, fuzzy slippers and get all cozy and comfy with you on the couch. I’ve got this nice catalog from Bed, Bath, and Beyond, and while we’re watching the hockey game, I want to look for some new bedroom curtains--that match your eyes. 

Kowalski: You mean my eyes don’t suck? 

Fraser: Of course not, silly! Besides, I looked at Turnbull’s schedule. We don’t get to appear together in a badfic for another three weeks.

_They exit through the front door, arm in arm._


End file.
